Polyester Dreams by Rachel E. Bledsoe

In 8th grade, I drank the Kool-Aid. Actually, I had been binge drinking Kool-Aid since the 4th grade. If aluminum cans of Kool-Aid existed, I would’ve shot gunned them. I would’ve tapped the Kool-Aid keg, and magically hoisted my bum into a permanent keg stand position.

There was one reason, and only one reason, I was chugging all this Kool-Aid. I wanted to wear one of those orange and black polyester uniforms. The uniform had an extra short pleated skirt. With its embroidered letters across my underdeveloped chest, it announced what team I belonged to. The uniforms came with matching panties, and every boy clamored to catch a glimpse of those spankies. Those uniforms were a part of a team. I wanted on that team.

I wanted to shout and clap. More than that, I wanted to have a boy try to grab my ass at an 8th grade dance. The background music at this dance would always be Boyz II Men. To be wanted, adored, popular, and thought of as pretty, would all be solved with this one uniform.

Four years running, I tried to make that team. Every year they posted the list, my name was never written on the final list which hung outside the gym in the school hallway. There were a thousand reasons my name was never written down. I couldn’t throw my body up in the air. I had no rhythm. I was deathly shy, not enough sis-boom-rah peppy. But in the 8th grade, there was no rejection list. If you could write your name on the sign-up sheet, you could become a cheerleader. You were in the club. I’ve never written my name so bubbly and so fast on anything in my life.

After practice one day, I sat with the pretty girls, my new friends, at Taco Bell. There I was, finally sitting with them at “their” table. People say blondes are dumb. As a natural born Irish strawberry blonde, and a common law blonde by bleach I assure you, not all blondes are dumb. I’m pretty observant. On this day, I observed what happens when you binge drink the Kool-Aid. You can only drink so many fluids before you have to leave the table and pee.

Every time a girl left that table, mean spirited hurtful words were spewed behind a “friend’s” back. Middle school back-stabbing pretty people cut open every restroom using soul. I stopped drinking the Kool-Aid immediately. I wasn’t leaving that table for nothing short of an apocalyptic catastrophe. I would’ve pissed myself first before I even thought about standing up.

Luckily for me, I ended up discovering a kidney wasn’t working a month after making the team. I went into home school and was withdrawn from public school. So, I couldn’t cheer anymore. When all the health issues were straightened out, I returned near the school year’s end. I didn’t sit at that table anymore. My good kidney couldn’t handle anymore Kool-Aid. My affection for what I thought I wanted died on a sunny afternoon. My desire to be on the team, to be wanted and loved, died in Taco Bell.

Uniforms don’t make you pretty. They don’t make boys want to grab your ass while you sway back and forth to Boyz II Men. That uniform didn’t change one aspect of who I was physically. Those polyester uniforms were just a cover. The letters across the chest deemed girls holy to every person in the hallway. But, those letters were never mine.

Design your own letters. Wear those letters proudly on your chest. Polyester uniforms are itchy and overrated. The biggest cheerleader you will ever have in life is yourself.

As the saying goes, “Don’t drink the Kool-Aid.”

Rachel E. Bledsoe-Rachel is an Appalachian mayhem loving Misfit Mama who works at a local newspaper during the day. At night, she stays up late and writes her blog, The Misfits of a Mountain Mama. She enjoys long walks on the beach, puppies, Marie Antoinette biographies, and babies (only the one she birthed.) She is the Mama to the Terrific Toddler who is rambunctious, rowdy, and can bite other kids within a blink of an eye. Be sure to follow all the antics and chaos by visiting The Misfits of a Mountain Mama’s Facebook page or join her on Twitter @MisfitMtMama.